Page 89 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Colin studied her. Her eyes were too bright. Beneath the challenge, he saw the restlessness that had been building between them since the study and sharpened during the dance. She wanted a quarrel because a quarrel was safer than silence. She wanted a blade in hand because wanting him was less manageable.

His mouth almost curved.

“And what shall the victor claim?” he asked.

Her brows lifted. “Ye assume there must be a prize?”

“There is always a prize when a Fraser risks dignity in public.”

“I am a MacKenzie now.”

The words struck him before she seemed to realize she had said them. For the smallest moment, both went still.

Colin’s voice lowered. “Aye. Ye are.”

Her gaze returned to his, wary now, and something heated passed between them more dangerous than any dagger.

She recovered first. “The victor may ask one question.”

“A question?”

“Any question. The loser must answer.”

Breac made a sound under his breath. Colin ignored him.

“Truthfully?” Colin asked.

Elspeth’s lips pressed together. “Truthfully.”

The meadow had grown attentive around them. The crowd sensed sport and scandal in equal measure. Even the older women abandoned the baking table’s disputes to watch.

Colin handed his cup to Breac. “Agreed.”

Elspeth blinked, perhaps surprised by how swiftly he accepted. Then satisfaction brightened her face.

They walked to the knife board together, and the crowd opened before them. The target was a rough circle painted in charcoal and chalk upon a slab of wood. Three daggers lay on a small table beside it, balanced but plain, used for practice rather than battle.

Murdoch stood nearby with two of the councilmen. Another few gathered behind them, men Colin had long tolerated because they were useful and old enough to mistake age for wisdom. One muttered something Colin did not catch.

Another answered. “Aye, well, let the lass have her amusement. Women like pretty games until steel proves heavier than ribbons.”

The first man gave a short laugh. “Best keep her behind the table where she cannae shame the laird. A bought bride should learn her place before she reaches for weapons.”

Colin’s hand closed around the first dagger. The meadow continued around him. Breac heard it. Colin knew by the way his friend’s posture changed, amusement draining out of him like water from a cracked cup. Murdoch heard it, too, and for once the hard suspicion in his face turned not toward Elspeth but toward the men behind him.

Elspeth heard only the laughter, not the words. She was selecting her dagger with too much care, testing its weight in her palm, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked proud, determined, and very young for half a heartbeat.

Something black and cold moved through Colin. He could have turned then. He could have taken the man by the throat before the whole clan and taught him that a tongue might be removed for less. But Elspeth had challenged him and he would not turn her victory into his anger.

Colin faced the board. He threw first. The dagger struck just outside the center, close enough to earn cheers, not close enough to end the matter. The crowd applauded. Elspeth looked at the blade, then at him.

“Is that yer best?”

“Nay.”

“At least ye are honest in defeat.”

“I havenae lost.”